Severed
by Dear Garnet
Summary: Stiles has lived out most of his life with the assumption that he's just a little broken in the head. Though, in light of all the recent supernatural bullshit, perhaps he isn't as certifiable - or human - as he's been led to believe. And, as if that wasn't enough, the Alpha pack and their fleas lurking around will definitely complicate matters further.
1. Constants

If Stiles was to name the single most constant presence in his life, he wouldn't say that it was his father, his best friend, his counselor, any occupants of the recent local lycanthrope infestation, or, unfortunately, his mother either.

For as long as he could remember, these completely silent, dark, looming shapes would follow him around.

While he would call them black in color, they seemed more to lack one instead, their forms were more of a void, sucking in any light and reflecting none of their own. They had no shadows and could change their shape, sometimes appearing humanoid in nature, but he observed them moving around as animals, multiple limbed monstrosities, and formless tuffs of darkness countless times before. He'd never seen them copy anything inorganic. These beings were seemingly weightless and unaffected by anything physical, they could float around on his ceiling and pass though walls effortlessly. And while they usually formed a group around him, there were a few times when Stiles was left with just one dark companion, and the highest amount that he'd ever bothered to count was twenty. All that aside, the very most important detail about these shadowy beings was that he'd never seen anyone else notice or react to them. It was all in his head, apparently.

Thinking back, these hallucinations weren't always so obvious.

When Stiles was younger, a kid, and before his mom died, they merely lurked in his peripheral vision, and he could never get a clear glimpse. Naturally, when you're a child and you see something dark and creepy, you get scared. You also look a little crazy with you head moving around constantly, trying to actually see whatever decided to haunt your scrawny ass. And unfortunately, being the twitchy paranoid kid didn't earn you a very good rap at school. It also made your parents worried. He'd been to the ophthalmologist several times in his youth to see if there was anything that could be causing whatever it was he was seeing. Before actually studying him, the good doctor had briefly listened to Stiles' explanation on the shadowy things at the corners of his eyes and confidently told him that they were definitely something called floaters. After the appointment was over, the only thing that they had learned was that Stiles had superb vision, perfectly healthy, undamaged eyes, and that his favorite sucker flavor was strawberry.

Never one to give up, his mom and dad later took him to a pediatrician that simply listened to his parent's explanation, and then preceded to politely kick them from the examination room. She had straightened her white coat, gave him a note from her pocket, and leaned against the closed door after she'd told him to read it out loud. The woman didn't move or say a word as she observed him brokenly recite the nursery rhyme on the wrinkled paper in his hands as he twitched around on the sheet covered cot. After eight uncomfortable minutes, the doctor - or was she a nurse? - had invited Stiles' parents back into the room and told them that he had ADHD.

While she was an idiot, she was also one of their last straws, and Stiles was tired of being a disappointment. His parents were amazing, and patient, and loving, and certainly deserved more than a defect for a child. He'd heard the things other adults sometimes whispered to them; saw the shame and tiredness in their eyes.

So, Stiles soon started what would become the second constant in his life. He lied.

Before that though, he had hoped. He looked at the two white tablets that had seemed so large in his tiny hand, and had prayed, and wished, and hoped, so, so hard that they would work.

They didn't.

They didn't, but they made the problem much easier to ignore, so naturally, he did.

A couple hours after taking his first dose of Adderall, Stiles looked up at his parents, smiled, and told them it worked. And god, the sheer amount of relief and glee on their faces was worth all the amount of effort in the world. Was certainly worth the bruises that ignoring any sudden movement brought. People just called him clumsy and unobservant then, instead of weird or mental. He had made his first friend! A best friend. Scott would laugh with him instead of at him. Most of the time, anyway. Ms. Melissa and his mom even got along swimmingly. She'd often stay for a while when she brought Scott over to visit. Their mothers would often bind over a glass of wine on the couch, talking about boring adult stuff. Sometimes his father would get home at the right time and join them.

They were a happy and normal family for once.

So, of course, his mom got sick a little while afterwards.

Cancer, they said it was. Leukemia, specifically.

He was ten at the time and didn't quite know the specifics of it. Can't quite remember when 'mom is sick' changed to 'mom is dying'.

What Stiles did remember was the flare of hope when his father had bent down to his to his height, grabbed his thin shoulders, looked at him with a steeled expression and told him that Stiles had a chance to save his mother. Told him to be good whenever the doctors drew blood to confirm that he was a match.

He wasn't a match.

Hell, he wasn't even close to being a match, and no one else was either. Lying wouldn't help with the problem this time.

Stiles was his mother's last chance, and he'd failed her as a son yet again. The guilt from this revelation would stick with him for a time, as would the look of crushing despair on his father's face. The resignation on his mother's while she was laying on her death bed. The pity on the doctor's when he had ripped apart the family's last shred of realistic hope.

Ms. Stilinski had died two weeks after her son's eleventh birthday. She was decidedly alone.

Her husband was working a reluctant shift, and she'd asked Stiles to go find Melissa a couple of minutes before she drifted off for good. When he'd returned with the familiar nurse in hand, the room was in a flurry of activity. Ms. McCall immediately pulled him to the opposite side of the hallway and hugged him to her chest. Stiles didn't know how to react, so he gripped her blouse tightly and listened to the loud whine of the heart monitor and shouts of hospitals attendants. When he realized what was happening, the air was pulled from his chest.

He had his first panic attack kneeling on sterile hospital tile, blubbering into the pant leg of his best friend's mother while his own died in the room just across from them. Needless to say, it wasn't the happiest moment of his life.

It was a few days after his mom's funeral that he'd seen one of the dark beings fully and not solely as a shape hovering just out of his sight.

His father was in a drunken slumber on the couch downstairs, and Stiles was in the hallway, just out of his room. The shadow was on the opposite end of the hall, just above the staircase. Nothing made a sound. Stiles was frozen.

For the barest of seconds, he believed it to be his mother.

Then he noticed that it was the wrong height and girth, that the slight lighting didn't illuminate it at all, and that it lacked any defining features. All he could see was what appeared to something that looked vaguely human-ish and dark, standing a few paces away from him. Cue freakout.

Stiles screamed when it glided towards him, and his father had been too out of it to hear him.

Perhaps that had been a good thing, considering.

The solid shadow had paused at his shout, stopping it's advance. It appeared to think for a second, then crouched low and seemingly melted into something that looked somewhat like a child. There were more details in the creature's second form. It had fingers now, and pudgy little limbs. There were even a pair of pigtails on its head that had reminded him of Lydia's hairstyle a couple days prior, and when it turned it's head to the side, he could see the silhouette of a nose and lips.

It had faced toward him once again and tilted it's head slightly to the side, as it raised it's right hand to slowly wave at him.

Struck speechless then, he had waved back at it.

The shadow had shook, silently giggling, took a couple of steps to the side, and turned its back parallel to the wall while making the universal 'after you' gesture. Stiles was still for a while, dumbstruck. He took his own tentative steps forward and skittishly walked towards the thing. He didn't continue toward the staircase, but instead, had stopped directly in front of where the shadow - still child shaped - leaned against the wall. After he'd had a few moments to adjust to the shock, the creature didn't seem threatening in the least. It didn't move, so he had reached out a hand and tried to gently lay it on it's shoulder. Stiles had jumped back, surprised, when his fingers passed directly through the inky black of it's body.

There was no feeling at all; it was like touching air.

The dark child had simply shrugged at the attempted gesture. Had tilted its head once again in a way that had appeared apologetic. They'd reached an understanding, it seemed.

Stiles had then continued his trek to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, covered his dad with a blanket, and made his way back to bed. The shadow had followed him the entire time, floating in velvety wisps around him. It was both familiar and new. The dark shapes that had always loomed just out of direct sight had finally revealed themselves, and were suddenly much less creepy for doing so. The situation had been strangely comforting.

He had fallen asleep that night watching his newly known companions trace shapeless patterns above him.

The next day, and presently after, they had remained visible, but just to him alone, even as they zoomed and twirled around. Stiles had tried not to be disappointed.

Most importantly though, he continued to lie. He was certain that only insane people saw things that didn't exist, and a crazy son was the last thing his grieving father needed.

**_Author's Note:_**

_I have no idea what I'm doing. _

_Like, seriously, this is my first attempt at fanfiction. Needless to say, this is also the first time I've uploaded anything on this site, so apologies if the format turns out being all screwed up.  
_

_Anyway, if I decide to continue on with this story, there are unlikely to be any lemons or sex scenes, but there will be graphic descriptions of gore and violence._

_Cannon pairings will be included. Polygamous, gay, or non-cannon pairings may or may not turn up later._

_Also, other chapters will be set more presently. Next one will probably take off near to where the end of season two left us.  
_

_So, yeah._

_Thank you for reading.  
_


	2. Back on the Road to Hell

For three glorious months, there was peace, pizza, video games, a healthy amount of free time, and no Allison, rouge werewolf psychopaths, killer lizards, vengeful camera stalkers, or cancer-riddled jackasses in site. Stiles hadn't seen hide or hair of Derek freaking Hale and his newly reanimated zombie-werewolf, un-alpha-fied uncle since the climax of the last fucked up supernatural uber-battle. Scott was finally spending bro time with him again, and, aside from him cheating at their makeshift lacrosse practices and getting a little violent on the full moon, everything was going fine. Granted, after the constant threat of death near the end of the last school year, it took a while for the staggering calmness of 'normal' life to actually feel real, but slight paranoia and PTSD aside, things were great.

_It was too good to be true._

Anyway, it was currently 5 o'clock in the morning, and he was sitting alone in one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs, staring at the hands on the mechanical clock above the stove and waiting. Stiles had woken up early after another restless night and figured that he'd surprise his dad with the company before the sheriff left for work. His father would be down any minute now. Speaking of which-

"What the hell are you doing down here in the dark?" His father asked. The older man's shirt was still untucked and his jacket was slung over his shoulder, but otherwise, he was already in uniform. He had that worried crease in his forehead that had become a staple ever since Stiles had shown up beaten bloody and sombre nearly four months ago.

"Just keeping you on your toes, and making sure you don't try sneaking junk food for breakfast again," said Stiles, rolling his eyes, then quickly squinting them as his dad turned on the harsh electric lighting. "Jeez, warn a guy, would you?"

"First off," the sheriff began counting off on his fingers,"It should have already been on, therefore I have a right to blind you with it. Second, Canadian bacon is not junk food. I've heard that it's rather healthy, actually." He looked rather proud of the last part.

"Dude, the key word is bacon. Anything with word bacon in it is artery clogging by default." Stiles got out of the chair he was waiting in and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge as his dad routinely filled a mug up with recently brewed coffee.

It was the same mug he always used, Stiles absently noted. The seashell pink one with a crack on the lip, false lace printed on the bottom, and the cheesy words 'For My Darling and Only' in bright, cherry red cursive streaked across a heart patterned background. It was a gag gift he remembered his mom getting him.

The sheriff took a seat at the table and groaned when he saw what his son was making. "Oatmeal, seriously?"

"It's not _that_ bad, I even got you some strawberries to put in it!" Stiles triumphantly shook the plastic crate of them as he turned, closing the fridge. His father returned the eye-roll he had done a minute earlier, still looking rather dejected.

Stiles let out a small laugh while he pored milk into a pot on the stove, waiting to bring it to a boil. He'd missed the closeness he'd had with his dad and had made it a prime mission to repair it after the last showdown with Gerard. It hadn't been quite as difficult as he'd thought it would be, seeing as he no longer to lie so upfront and obviously. Now granted, things would never be what they were before all the full moon business began, but he was grateful for what they currently had.

"You working the speed trap tonight?"

"Yep. Want me to pick you up later? God knows I could use the company." While they'd transferred some replacement deputies over from the neighboring county, the station was still pretty empty, and they couldn't spare two people for the same shift. He'd heard his father complaining about it constantly.

"I'll be waiting at Scotty's," Stiles answered, stirring the gelatinous mixture of soggy oats and dairy. Scott had surprisingly taken an initiative and asked him for help picking up school supplies instead of waiting until last minute again like last year. It had been hilarious watching him realize that the only binders they'd had left in stock were either sparkly or Justin Beiber themed. The puppy was finally learning a new trick, it seemed.

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence, before his father had broken it with, "You're still having nightmares, aren't you?"

Shit.

"Dunno. I had a dream last night, but I can't really remember what it was about." Not _technically_ a lie. "I mean, I woke up sweaty and excited. Was probably something pretty good, if you know what I mean," he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows. He'd rather his dad think he woke up horny, instead of terrified. It was a decent trade off.

His father looked affronted, "Christ, I really don't want to hear about the aftermath of my son's wet dreams."

"You sure? We could always compare and contr-"

"Stiles." The sheriff look vaguely horrified now. It changed to full on disgust when Stiles set his meal in front of him. His dad gingerly turned over a spoonful, watching the oat gruel stick briefly to the utensil before plopping wetting to join the rest of the mess in the bowl.

"Bon appétit," Stiles said, enthusiastically digging into his own portion. "Come on," he said with a sticky mouthful, after watching his dad hesitate for a few seconds more, "I made it with luuurv."

"It certainly looks like it," his dad said, grimacing through a reluctant bite.

Eventually, the sheriff had to head over to work, leaving his son to do cleanup. Stiles honestly didn't mind, he did the task quickly, while finally eyeing the three shadows flowing around him. He'd noticed that they'd been a bit more agitated lately, and reckoned that it was his mind's subconscious way of coping with the paranoia he'd been feeling. He saw one take on a lazy rendition of a woman and point toward the back of the house before dispersing and joining the acrobatic, midair dance with the other two once again. They really were quite flustered this morning, moving around more so than what he was used to. It was aggravating Stiles; he was nervous enough, and not only did it make the inky shapes harder to ignore, but it also made him jumpier as well.

His mind was counter productive like that.

Stiles was putting the last dish to dry when he briefly heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

"Did you forget your wallet again?" He called out, beginning to walk back to his room.

He nearly pissed himself when a gruff, moody voice that was decidedly _not_ his father say, "Isaac's missing."

"_Mother fu-_" Stiles almost tripped over his feet swiveling around to see Beacon Hill's resident alpha leaning on the door frame he'd passed under a scant few seconds ago.

Christ, no matter how many times he'd seen them before, those glowing red eyes never got any less creepy.

"He went out looking for Boyd two d-" Stiles lifted the hand that currently wasn't plastered over his heart and interrupted Derek.

"Give me like_ five_ seconds to get over the freaking heart attack you just gave me." Derek, of course, gave him a seething look, but surprisingly, he held his tongue. "How the hell did you even get in here? Did you climb through my window again? Just stayed hidden, watching like - like some fucked up movie villain until my dad left?" He bravely sent a glare at the uninvited ninja-wolf.

"I came through the back door. It was unlocked."

"Because that's _so_ much better." The sarcasm was practically oozing from him. Stiles absolutely refused to back down. This creeper was going to learn how to knock, creature of the night or not.

"Figured you wouldn't want anyone to see a past murder suspect waiting at your front door," Derek dryly stated, crossing his arms and looking more annoyed than Stiles thought was possible, "And I did knock before coming in."

Oh. Well then.

Didn't really realize that he'd said that last part out loud. Also, he'd take what he'd get.

An uncomfortable silence passed.

"Um, you were saying?" He felt all fidgety now, and the dark shapes around him were motionless. Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the werewolf's. They weren't glowing anymore, at least. He noted that he really couldn't quite pin a color on them. Hazel, maybe.

Said hazel eyes were pointedly narrowed at him. Derek huffed a breath and continued, "I was saying," he stated, daring the teen to interrupt him again, "That I can't find Isaac. He went looking for Boyd a couple of days ago, and I haven't heard from him since."

"Boyd's back? Why don't you just ask him?"

"Because I can't find him either. That's why Isaac was looking for him." Well, that didn't sound very reassuring. He totally called this bullshit.

"What about Peter? I'm sure you've realized that two super sniffers are better than one."

"He said he'd call me if he found anything," and Stiles must have been imagining things, because he could have sworn he saw Derek squirming a bit, before settling with a tight expression. "I just... I don't trust him. Can't trust him entirely." Yeah, Stiles could understand that. Was, in fact, still somewhat surprised that the manipulative son of a bitch was still alive.

_Jackass_ Jackson wasn't really an option. He had jumped ship merely three weeks after being de-kanima'd, leaving Lydia heartbroken in the dust. Stiles wasn't sure whether to be angry or completely elated at that. He settled for both. He was pissed, but grateful. Gratefully pissed, at Jackson, of all people, for lending a huge push to his Ten Year Plan.

Wait, what was he supposed to be thinking about again?

Ah. Right.

Derek needs an extra bloodhound.

Anyway, zombies, trust issues, and jerk jocks aside, there was still one other person.

"Ask Scott."

"There's no way he'd agree, unless I got you involved." Oh huh, uh. He had a rough feeling of what the alpha before him was trying to talk his way around, and that weak excuse wasn't going to cut it.

"He likes Isaac. There's no way he'd refuse. Just play with his weak little heart strings, and he'll be puddy in your claws." Ha! Try working your way around that, Mr. Big 'n Bad.

Derek looked downright uncomfortable now and was staring at a point over Stiles' shoulder when he said, "He's more stubbor-" Stiles stopped him right there.

"You just don't want to ask him for help."

Silence.

He knew it.

"Suck up your damn pride, and get over that stupid pissing match you two have been having."

"I-," Derek began but then let out a frustrated sigh, mussed a hand through his gelled hair, and gave up, "Can't you just ask him for me? You _know_ he doesn't want me anywhere near him." Oh my god, Derek was almost begging him. Stiles wished he had a camera to record the moment. As well as he knew the werewolf standing in front of him, this was probably as close to prime blackmail as he would come.

"No. You go ask him. Be a man, Derek." Stiles was grinning cheekily, mirroring the man's earlier posture and crossing his arms mockingly.

He'd never seen Derek look more constipated.

"I'm not asking him. Lahey and Boyd could be in danger. You can't tell me you don't ca-"

"Go ask Scott."

"No." Stupid fucking stubborn werewolfs.

"Go. Ask. Scott."

"No."

"Derek. Go ask him."

"I am _not_ asking him," McGrumpy-Pants stubbornly growled back, before storming away from the doorway he was previously affixed to.

A slammed door marked the man's departure.

_Well,_ Stiles thought, _at least he took it out on something inanimate this time._

* * *

Stiles' phone rang an hour and twenty-five minutes after Derek broodily left. He paused the cat video he was watching and briefly looked at the screen before he smirked, and triumphantly answered it.

"Dude," Scott's voice called out, "You won't believe what Derek just asked me."

"I can imagine," He said, leaning comfortably back in his computer chair, lazily observing a new dark creature tumbling out of the wall across from him. It joined the others already swirling about in the early morning glow gently lighting his room. While still wilder than usual, they were thankfully a bit calmer than earlier.

Scott rambled on as though Stiles had never gotten a word in, "He said that he '_required my assistance' _in finding two of his betas." Damn, his friend just sounded down right gleeful, soaking it up for all it was worth. He could only imagine how defeated Derek must have looked.

Poor fucker.

Lost in thought, Stiles almost missed what Scott continued on with, "You're gonna to come with, right?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

Well, he couldn't leave Scotty all by his lonesome. God knows Derek was going to avoid him like the plague after this.

That, and Stiles really wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to his best friend just because he didn't want to tag along.

"I'll be over in five," he said, hanging up. Stiles absentmindedly tossed his mobile on top of the tangled sheets of his unmade bed, then rubbed his hands over his eyes, seriously questioning the rationality of his life decisions. Hopefully, _hopefully_, this time there wouldn't be any near death experiences. Curlicue and Silent but Deadly probably met up in the middle of the preserve and decided that split second camping sounded like an absolutely brilliant idea. They were werewolfs after all, they _thrived_ out in the wilderness, in all of their hairy, fanged, bright eyed glory. Maybe they just wanted to get in touch with their inner beast and all that jazz.

Ha, who the fuck was he kidding?

Beacon Hills was turning into a Hellmouth for the third time, and he and his delicate human body were probably going to get caught right smack dab in the middle once more.

_Again, totally called it,_ Stiles thought, as he reluctantly got up, pocketed his Jeep's keys, and made his way out to his loyal, trusted, sky blue Baby. He made a point to double check and see if he locked both the front _and_ back door before climbing into the front seat. Sourwolf was _not_ getting the jump on him again.

"I'm a really good friend, aren't I?" He mused to himself as he buckled himself in behind the wheel, listening to his Baby's engine rumble, and feeling the jerky vibrations in the shift he was gripping. Though he wasn't directly addressing it, one of the shadows beside him took on the odd shape of a malformed, conjoined man and eagerly nodded two heads.

Stiles let out an amused chuckle and began the short drive to pick Scott up.

**Author's Note:**

_Thank you everyone for your responses so far._

_I'd also like to belatedly double thank any of the early birds that read this chapter before I added this note & corrected any of the more ridiculous mistakes plus the brief chapter mixup, and somehow managed to find their way back to it again. You guys are the best, and I'd kiss you if I could._

_Anyway, in case you haven't noticed so far, there will be a rather slow build._

_For those curious, Sterek will, more likely than not, be making an appearance later on. Just keep in mind that if (if!) I decide to go full speed ahead with non-cannon romance, Derek probably won't be the only person that I pair Stiles with, because I'm kinky like that._

_Most of what you've probably found out will be happening in season three will have very little correlation with the direction this story is headed. So, you know, there's that.  
_


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